


Pretty in Pink

by Marrilyn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/F, Magic-Users, Potions Accident, Rowena Being A Drama Queen, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:35:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26701537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marrilyn/pseuds/Marrilyn
Summary: Rowena has had it with your disorganization and blatant lack of respect for witchcraft.
Relationships: Rowena MacLeod/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	Pretty in Pink

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this post: gayarsonist.tumblr.com/post/626563784583086080/well-if-somebody-would-put-a-label-on-it

It was the third time it happened this week.

Third bloody time!

Rowena was furious, fuming, face burning red as her hair — or it would be, if her hair weren't neon pink, glowing even in the bright fluorescent light of the bathroom.

"Y/N!" she shrieked like a banshee — worse, even — as soon as she got a glimpse of the monstrosity on her head in the mirror.

She didn't bother slipping on a robe or throwing on a towel — she ran out, arse-naked, blood boiling. Pissed off enough to take a life with a single glare.

She'd told you multiple times to take better care of your shite. Begged you, even, and she didn't beg. Not just anyone. But no matter how many times she asked and pleaded and shouted, you never seemed to get it in your pretty wee head.

"Wha—" Your mouth fell as she emerged from the hallway, jaw hanging in a big, long O. Your eyes bore into hers, swiped down to her body — her pale, bare body, still dripping from the shower, glistening in the light — and finally landed on her hair. A snort tore from your throat, undignified, filthy as that of a pig. "Oh, my god!"

Your laughter rang in Rowena's ears, a seemingly endless echo. She grit her teeth to hold back a growl more animal than human that threatened to break free. Squeezed her hands into fists so tight her knuckles flushed white as sheets. "This is not funny, Y/N!"

Your face grew serious for a moment, for a measly second before another fit of laughter took you over. "I think it's hilarious," you said, doubling over, tears sliding down the corners of your eyes. You couldn't help it — the more you looked at her, at her impossibly pink hair, the harder it was to control yourself. "I'm sorry."

You were not sorry.

"How many times have I told you to stop leaving your potions in the bathroom?" Rowena snapped.

Too many times. More than she could count. She would understand if magic were a novelty to you. But you were a natural-born witch. You'd always had magic. Rowena had been your mentor for five years, and your girlfriend for four — proper storage had been one of the first things she'd taught you.

And yet.

And _yet._

You straight up refused to listen. Sometimes it felt as if she were speaking to a wall, though, at this point, Rowena was certain a wall would have retained the knowledge sooner.

It was easier to store potions in old shampoo and soap bottles, you always said. Why waste money on vials when you had perfectly good ones at home? Leaving them at random places around the house was just practical. Keeping them in a cupboard, as Rowena insisted, was old-fashioned. The bathroom, the living room, the bedroom — they all needed a potion or two, to liven them up. To make it clear to anyone who visited (though no one ever did) that there were witches living in this house.

It had never even occurred to you that you were messy.

It had occurred to Rowena. Multiple times over the years.

You shrugged.

Rowena stomped her foot angrily, fed up with your nonsense. Fed up with years — bloody years! — of it. What kind of witch lived like this, in this mess, in complete and utter disorganization, and saw no issue with it? What in hell was wrong with you?

What in hell was wrong with _her_ for putting up with it?

Right.

She loved you. As reluctant as Rowena was to admit it, you had your good sides. You were kind to her — always had been, even back when she deserved not a sliver of it. You were there when she needed you. Held her without her having to utter a single word, without her having to plead for comfort. Showered her with love every single day.

Rowena couldn't have asked for anything — anyone — better, but still…

Why was it so hard for you to be a normal witch?

"It's not my fault," you said, trying — and failing, miserably so — to retain a serious face. "Maybe you should stop using the shampoo."

Rowena scowled. Wished she could find it in her to kill you for anyone else would surely be dead by now. "It's my bloody shampoo!"

"Oh."

Oh?

_Oh?!_

"Maybe _you_ should stop reusing the bottles!" she snarled.

"It's much less wasteful this way," you said. "Besides, it's kinda cool."

"It is _not_ 'cool' in any way, shape, or form. You are making a mockery of witchcraft."

You blinked. Snorted like a pig. "You're taking this way too seriously." Under your breath, you added, "For someone with bright pink hair."

"I'm taki—Are you joking?" Rowena said, outraged. Trying to ignore that last comment despite wanting to curse you out for the nerve alone. "Us witches have spent centuries rebuilding our reputation after our numbers dwindled during the trials, and this is what we get from witches today? Potions in shampoo bottles? Elixirs in bloody moisturizer containers?"

"I don't use moisturizer containers for—"

"That's besides the point!" She pointed a finger at you, nail bright red as her face. "You are a disgrace!"

Rowena wasn't sure what she expected. A sliver of self-reflection. A long, hard look at what you were doing. A promise you wouldn't do it anymore. Hell, even a simple nod in acknowledgment would have sufficed.

Out of everything, the last thing she thought you would do was burst into another fit of laughter.

Yet here you were, laughing as if you'd just heard the funniest joke in your entire life. Face buried in your hands to hide it, to hide yourself from Rowena's murderous glare. To protect yourself from judgment you knew would come your way.

"You know," you said, barely containing yourself to let the words out, "this would be a lot more epic if you had clothes on." An undignified snort. "And if your hair wasn't pink."

Rowena gaped. Fixed her stare on you, cold and deadly. Some audacity you had to talk to her like that. People revered her. Feared her. Thought twice before pissing her off. And here you were, mocking her to her face.

She'd given you too much freedom. From the moment you'd met, she'd never enforced her unspoken rules. Had never set boundaries and demanded respect. She supposed she always knew you were more than just another young witch tagging along, begging to learn her tricks. There was something different about you. Something — gods, she hated to admit it — special.

You fell in love with her, and had, in turn, taught her to love you back. Had shown her that it was okay, that it didn't have to hurt. That it was a strength rather than a weakness.

And now, when she was in deep, you laughed at her.

Rowena sighed. The things we allowed for love…

"There is no talking to you, is there?" she asked, completely and utterly defeated. She could teach you magic. She could teach you complicated spells and incantations, but she couldn't teach you how to properly store your potions. She could never make a proper, dignified witch out if you.

"I just don't get why you're making this an issue," you said.

Rowena could tell you didn't. You truly understood nothing. Had no respect for tradition. Witches today, honestly… "I'm—" She stopped herself before falling into another monologue you clearly didn't care for. Cleared her throat. Lowered her voice before saying, "Forget it. It's fine."

What point was there for arguing, for telling you — _again —_ when you were clearly intent on not listening? You'd set your mind on doing things your way, and there was no changing it.

 _My stubborn wee lamb,_ Rowena thought, to her surprise, affectionately, cursing herself for being unable to stay mad at you. You were too stubborn for your own good. Too bloody strong-willed. A trait she admired, but, gods, it was frustrating to argue with you.

Maybe that was what she needed. Someone who wouldn't bow down to her. Someone who would stay strong and fight back against her silly demands, who would keep her feet firmly on the ground. Rowena couldn't deny she'd learned a lot from you. You'd helped her change. Helped her grow. Helped her become a better, kinder person. She would forever be grateful for that.

Just…

Why did you have to be such a bloody child?

"Could you at least put labels on your… creations?" she asked. Hoped with everything she had at least this one tradition you would be willing to obey.

What kind of a witch sorted her potions by bottles instead of names?

"Sure," you said.

Rowena breathed out in relief. "Now you are going to fix this." She pointed to her hair.

You chuckled. She was beginning to hate that sound. "Why me?"

"Because you did it."

"You're the one who took the wrong bottle."

"And _you_ are the one who used the old bottle of _my_ shampoo and left it in the bathroom."

"Fine," you conceded. A sly smirk bloomed on your mouth. "Can I take a picture first?"

"You cannot!" Rowena exclaimed, angry, offended at the mere thought. It was horrifying enough to have hair that glowed in the dark. But to have a picture of it? She shuddered. Who would want to remember this monstrosity?

You would. Your laugh said as much, and so did your hands as they reached for your phone and snapped a quick picture.

Rowena was fuming. "I am going to hex you!"

"No, you're not," you said nonchalantly.

She grunted like a trapped animal. You were right. She would not hex you. She would not do anything but glare and pout, and once you wrapped her up in your embrace, that would cease, as well.

Because she loved you. She was a fool in love, and she hated and loved it at the same time.

Some scary witch she was.

**Author's Note:**

> Edited by miss-moon-guardian.


End file.
